


Decorative

by relic_amaranth



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: Bucky has a confession to make, and a deadline with which to do it. He gets beaten to the punch, but he’s not upset about it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 127





	Decorative

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Christmas fic, pure fluff, use of ‘sweetheart’ for otherwise non-descript Reader
> 
> A/N: Iiiiiit’s Christmas fluff /confetti

“Maybe two inches to the right?”

For most people, this would be a circle in hell.

“Damn; I overshot. One inch back, maybe?”

‘Hell’ as an idea is pretty subjective, but even while Bucky will throw that term around as flippantly as anyone else (like the other day while waiting in line at Starbucks with Sam) this is still the farthest thing from it.

“…You’re going to hate me.”

Bucky smiles to himself and moves back to his original position. Then he shifts a centimeter.

“Perfect!”

He waits patiently for you to run over and pin the giant paper snowflake to your wall. When you lean against him to secure the other side he shuts his eyes to better savor the sense of you leaning against him, all warmth and excitement and _you_.

You put your hand on his shoulder and his eyes snap back open. “Thank you,” you say and leave his immediate space.

“It’s no problem,” he says, because it’s true.

“No, I mean it; I really appreciate this,” you say and give him a quick hug. You’re very physical with him in brief and light but meaningful ways. He loves it– it’s like you’re warmth incarnate and he’s a snowman, and every time you touch him a little more of the Winter Soldier melts away. “I know I’m… _picky_ …about my decorations. I didn’t know I was _that_ bad, but–”

“You’re not,” Bucky says, frowning at the memory of Natasha turning down your invitation. “Natasha thinks she’s funnier than she is.”

Your smile is wry. “It was kind of funny. I’ve never had someone tell me they were going to Argentina to plan their own assassination before. Especially just to avoid getting out of decorating for Christmas.” Your expression doesn’t change much but your smile seems more brittle when you say, “But there must be something I did to make Steve and Sam react like that too…”

Bucky flinches and glances at his phone, though he’s memorized the last texts Steve sent him.

Steve: Sam and I have made sure you’re going to be alone for Christmas decorating this weekend.  
Steve: Remember what we talked about.

“Talked about;” more like Steve, Sam, and Natasha had sat him down like some fucking intervention and told him that if he didn’t tell you how he felt about you by the end of the year, then _they_ would.

~

_“It’s the pining,” Sam moaned. “It’s killing us.”_

_“I really **will** kill you if you say anything,” Bucky nearly growled._

_“No you won’t,” the three of them said in near-unison._

_Bucky slumped in defeat, because they were right. So maybe he talked about you sometimes…a lot of times…he spent a lot of time with you; it was only natural you would come up in conversation. And of course he spent a lot of time with you– you were a good and interesting person, and for some reason you liked spending time with him too. You were just friends who really liked each others’ company._

_Except for when you inevitably started avoiding him because he couldn’t help but be…_

_“Hey,” Steve said, gently pulling Bucky out of his impending spiral. “It’s going to be okay; we’re going to help.”_

_Bucky looked from Steve, to Sam, to Natasha, and though he truly loved his friends, those words made an unbalanced weight settle in his gut. “…How?”_

~

It turns out their idea of ‘helping’ was to pull the adult equivalent of making terrible excuses to be somewhere else and then quickly hiding behind a bush. Bucky rolls his eyes. He’s grateful you live in a third floor walk-up that he’s already done due diligence on. “They don’t mean anything; they’re just…” He stops and reconsiders his deflection. This is the perfect opportunity– no pressure to react one way or another, just a way to tell you, casually, and see how you react to it. “They were just trying to help me out.”

“Help you?” You look at him. “With what?”

It would be so easy; he just has to _say_ it. “So that…I could spend time alone with you. Because I really like…” He swallows hard. “I really like…being with you. Alone. By ourselves. Without them.”

That doesn’t sound right, it doesn’t come out the way he means, but you brighten and the moment is gone and he could _kick_ himself. In the _face_. Well, maybe not, but he’s pretty sure he can knee himself, at least. “I like spending time with you too, Bucky,” you say. “Let me go get us something to drink and then we’ll test out the lights!”

As you go to the kitchen he busies himself by throwing out some of the trash, contemplates jumping in with it, and instead shoves the now-empty boxes back in the closet.

The lights go out, and he freezes.

There’s a small thud and a curse, followed by, “Oops!” Then another small thud. “…I probably should have waited to put these down before I turned out the lights.”

Bucky’s heart rate returns to a reasonable baseline. He shakes his head but feels a small smile begin to form. He turns on the tree and multicolored lights dance in the darkness.

You sigh like a floodlight has just come on and say, “That’s perfect; thank you!” but Bucky knows better and he helps you get back to the couch without burning yourself on the drinks you're trying to carry.

“I could have made it,” you say and poke him playfully once you’re both seated.

“I’m here to help,” he says and brushes his fingers along your side. You squirm but, oddly enough, you shove yourself _against_ his hand rather than away from it. He doesn’t expect that, so much that he freezes and doesn’t know whether to pull back, stay, or…

“Gotcha pinned,” you say proudly.

“Uh huh.” No, you very much don’t, it goes without saying, but you're soft and close and he _wants_ to be pinned. …Does that mean he technically is? Is your hold that strong? It’s probably best not to think too hard on that.

“Here,” you say and pull back, leaving an empty slot he can feel. But then you lean right back in to gingerly hand him a steaming mug. “A hot toddy’s okay, right?”

“Of course.” It’s true, but he would drink it regardless. He swallows a big burning gulp under your watchful gaze, but your stare doesn’t lessen.

In fact, your frown deepens. “Are you feeling okay, Bucky?”

“Yeah.” He stares at his drink and steals little glances. You purse your lips in a way that’s familiar and his heart leaps. He lifts his head. “Hey,” he says and holds steady when you look at him. “I meant it. I’m right where I want to be. I’m just not…talkative. But I’m comfortable.”

The lights are hitting your face in spasms and patterns, splashes and splatters of color and he can’t tear his eyes away. Especially when you smile. “I’m glad,” you say. “Bucky?”

“Yeah?” He should stop staring. It’s probably creepy. But then you’re staring too, so you must not mind it, right?

“I’ve got something for you,” you say. “Shut your eyes.”

He does it with barely a second of hesitation. The first thing he feels is your hand, especially warm from the hot mug, palm against his cheek. Then he feels your breath on his face, heavy and halting– right before you press your lips to his, off-center and a little dry but so, so perfect that he whites out for a moment.

He opens his eyes as you pull away and he wants you to come _back_ but he can’t speak, not yet.

Your face falls. “Oh no…I got it all wrong. Bucky, I’m so–”

He puts his drink down, grabs your face (gently, gently,) and pulls you back in for a kiss. Another kiss, a– well he can’t honestly say it’s better, but he does have impeccable aim, even though his heart is racing, and the little noise of delight you let out makes him light up brighter than any Christmas tree in the entire world.

When he pulls back your eyes are still shut and there’s a dreamy smile on your face he just wants to kiss again (and again, and again, and again). He smiles and thinks he might. When he rubs his thumb over your lips, your eyes flutter open.

“No,” he says. “You got it very, very right.”

Your smile grows. You practically throw your mug onto the table, but then you move slowly as you gently hug Bucky. He enfolds you in his arms and pulls you wholly into him.

“Merry Christmas Bucky.”

“Merry Christmas sweetheart.”

Your contented sigh is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He’s looking forward to hearing it a lot more.


End file.
